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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317090">Runesinger</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary'>Nary</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Finnish Mythology &amp; Folklore, Folklore, Gen, Gods, Magic, Magic Revealed, Music, Runes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:27:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,610</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317090</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He was just about to leave when he realized a man was standing behind him.  He didn't hear him approach, not even on the gravel driveway that lead down to the barn, and it startled him.  For a minute he wondered if he was about to be robbed or worse, but the man didn't make any threatening motions.  He just stood there, a couple of yards away.  He was tall, looked like he was maybe in his 60s or so, but strong, with a great grey beard down to his chest, and wearing an old, weather-beaten hat of no particular color.  He looked like Gandalf, was Peter's first thought, or like a wizard airbrushed on the side of a van.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Worldbuilding Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Runesinger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujacheong/gifts">yujacheong</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On Friday after school got out in Ashtabula, Ohio, a group of four teenagers dressed in ratty black t-shirts and jeans gathered.  They headed out to Peter's dad's barn, because it was the biggest and furthest away from any neighboring houses, and it had power.  Once it was for keeping cows, but the Markkula family hadn't had cows in thirty years.  Now the barn housed rusting farm equipment, a stash of canned goods and bottled water in case the apocalypse came, an assortment of old junk up in the loft, and their amps and drum kit.  They brought their guitars, and they would bash out the loudest black metal music the surrounding countryside had ever heard - at least until 7:30, when Finn, the drummer, had to go to take his little brother to karate lessons.</p><p>Peter said his goodbyes to his friends, his ears still ringing from the deafening roar of the music, and was left to close up the barn.  His family came over from Finland a hundred and something years ago, and they settled on this piece of land and built a farm to support themselves.  Mostly the men - his grandfather, great-grandfather, and their brothers - worked two jobs, doing metalwork for the railways and the shipyards, then coming home and doing any farm work their wives and children hadn't already taken care of.  His father was the first in the family to go to college, to become an electrical engineer, and gradually the farm fell by the wayside.  Now it was just a cluster of half-ruined outbuildings and some overgrown former pasture.  Peter wanted to be a musician, but his parents told him there was no money in that - that he should get a degree in something useful, and have his little hobby band on the side.  That wasn't what he wanted, although he knew that they were only thinking of what was best for him.   </p><p>He was just about to leave when he realized a man was standing behind him.  He didn't hear him approach, not even on the gravel driveway that lead down to the barn, and it startled him.  For a minute he wondered if he was about to be robbed or worse, but the man didn't make any threatening motions.  He just stood there, a couple of yards away.  He was tall, looked like he was maybe in his 60s or so, but strong, with a great grey beard down to his chest, and wearing an old, weather-beaten hat of no particular color.  He looked like Gandalf, was Peter's first thought, or like a wizard airbrushed on the side of a van.</p><p>"Is this your barn?" he asked, incongruously, since Peter was sixteen and didn't look like he owned anything more than a beat up Honda Accord.</p><p>Peter shook his head.  "My dad's."</p><p>The man asked, "Is your dad by any chance Taavi Markkula?" </p><p>"No... he was my grandfather.  My dad is Erik."</p><p>"Ah, yes," the old man said, nodding sagely.  "It's been longer than I thought."  Peter wondered if this was some friend of his grandfather's from years ago, and also wondered, just a little, whether this guy was entirely all there.</p><p>"Can I help you with something?" he asked, because he had been raised to be polite to his elders, even if they might be senile.</p><p>"Perhaps," the man said.  "I left something in the keeping of your family once, a long while ago.  I wanted to know that they still have it - that it's still safe."</p><p>"Okay," Peter said, confused and feeling more than ever like he was in a fantasy novel.  "What is it?"</p><p>"A kantele."</p><p>Peter could vaguely remember his grandfather playing a kantele when he was little, the haunting sound of its plucked strings and the clear voice ringing out over them in a language he didn't know but that spoke to something in his soul nevertheless.  It used to hang on the wall in the kitchen, but after his grandfather had gone into the nursing home it had been put away.  He had no idea where it might be now, unless it was up in the loft of the barn with the other old junk.  "Maybe..." he said, uncertainly.</p><p>"You could just let me in to have a look for it," the old man said.  "I don't mind searching."  It sounded more persuasive than it should have.  Peter's hand was already on the lock, ready to open it, but he still hesitated.</p><p>"What's your name?" he asked.  "Maybe I should get my dad..."</p><p>"Not necessary," said the old man.  He placed a hand on the door and the lock opened in Peter's hand.  Maybe he hadn't quite locked it, he thought, but the old man was already stepping inside and looking around.  Peter followed him warily, flipping the light back on.</p><p>The old man's gaze fell over the drum kit and the amps and Peter's guitar.  "Were you the one playing the loud music here a short while ago?"  </p><p>"Yes," Peter said, half-expecting a lecture about the volume or quality of the music.   </p><p>"I heard it from far away, and it called to me," the man said, nodding.  "Now, you said the kantele was up in the loft?" Peter wasn't sure he <i>had</i> said any such thing, but he nodded, and followed the stranger up there.  It was dusty and the light threw strange shadows among the piles of boxes and debris handed down from past generations.</p><p>Peter had no idea where to even start looking, but the old man seemed to gravitate directly to the right place.  He drew back a cobweb-coated sheet and under it was a wooden kantele, worn with the hands of every player who had held it.  Peter thought there was no way it could still be playable - the strings would have worn out, the wood cracked, sitting here unused in a barn for years and years, but when the old man picked it up, plucking a few notes, it sounded as good as new.</p><p>The stranger sat down on a crate and put the kantele across his lap, and began to play.  Peter stood, spellbound.  He could have been five years old again, listening to his grandfather playing in the kitchen.  He could have been a hunter two thousand years ago, listening to a shaman chanting runes around an open fire in a forest in Finland.  He felt unmoored, listening to this music, and yet anchored by a long cord reaching somewhere far away.  </p><p>The shadows shifted.  The kantele was wood with steel strings, or was it bone, the huge jawbone of a fish, sharp with teeth and strung with hair?  The old man wore an ordinary denim jacket, or a bearskin cloak, the skull over his own.  Peter's legs felt unsteady, and he put a hand out to lean against one of the wooden beams of the barn.  His fingers found grooves there, carvings he had never noticed before, etched runes worked into the structure of the place, and in that moment he understood their meaning - their protection, their magic, woven in and around and through.</p><p>He opened his mouth and although he did not know the words, the words of the song came through him anyway.  He followed the trail the old man laid before him, tracing a path to a destination he didn't yet know, and yet recognized.  The words felt powerful, felt <i>real</i> - it felt as if he was singing reality into a new shape, a better shape.       </p><p>The music stopped, but Peter could still feel it echoing in his mind.  The old man smiled and nodded and put the instrument away, draping the sheet back over it.  "It's sound," he said.  "It can stay here a little longer - until it's needed."</p><p>Peter didn't know what that meant, but he nodded anyway.  Together they descended from the loft.       </p><p>"The music used to be everywhere," the old man said.  "When people worked, singing - when they celebrated, singing.  Now it's so quiet.  Apart from your band," he added with a faint smile.  "No one could call you boys quiet, could they?"</p><p>"No," Peter said, grinning.  "Usually they say we're too loud.  We're going to be famous someday," he added.  He wasn't sure why he said it - it was one of those things he'd learned not to say to adults, because they usually either laughed or humored him with a nod, but this man seemed to give it serious consideration.</p><p>"Yes," he said eventually, stroking his beard.  He extended his right hand, as if to shake, and Peter put his own out in response.  The old man clasped his forearm tightly, looking him in the eyes.  "You will carry the old faith, singing the rune-magic, into the heart of Media's domain, and through her, you will spread my worship."  He laughed, as though he'd made a particularly good joke.  None of this made any sense to Peter, but he nodded.  "Does your band have a name, young runesinger?"     </p><p>"Not yet," Peter said.  They kept arguing over names, and hadn't settled on one they could all agree on.   </p><p>"You asked me my name earlier, and I did not tell you then.  But now I will.  It is Väinämöinen, the smith, the bard, the shaman. I give you this knowledge, in thanks for sharing my song."  He gave a slight nod and stepped outside.  By the time Peter followed him, he was nowhere to be seen.</p><p>Still puzzled by what had just happened, Peter locked the barn again.  It was fully dark now, and the night was quiet.  He began the walk up to the house, singing quietly under his breath.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can find me on Tumblr at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/naryrising">naryrising</a> if you want to ask questions, make requests, or chat!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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